Page 82 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
Lord Vernon, however, had seen Archie’s weaknesses, and he knew his father’s. He conceived a plan and convinced his father that Bluebelle Lodge would be prime land for a lime pit. He convinced Diddenton to buy Wickworth Hall, found a surveyor to adjust the property lines and, since a survey was so mind-numbingly easy to contest, he falsified the land descriptions in title documents stored at Wickworth Hall. Then persuaded his good friend Chilcombe to avoid an expensive land dispute.
Diddenton could hardly claim to be innocent. He had now, however, besides his foreign trading interests, a railway bill he was trying to push through parliament. Thus, he yielded quite readily.
“He is taking himself off to the Continent for a time until the scandal dies down,” Morley said.
“And what of his son?” Lady Hermione asked. “Will he hang?”
Graeme exchanged a look with Jarrow and frowned. “No. Lord Diddenton has worked out an arrangement. Lord Vernon will be placed in a private lunatic asylum.”
Blythe gripped the edge of the table while panic coursed through her. “Then we are still in danger.”
“He is being taken to Charenton in France,” Jarrow said. “Former home of the Marquis de Sade. It is a secure facility. Though I perfectly understand your concern.”
“The king was reluctant to allow a trial to proceed,” Graeme said, gently. “We cannot prove he murdered Archie. We have Lunetta’s statement, but we won’t be able to call her to testify in a trial. His attack on her…” Graeme groped for words.
“A prostitute’s life has less value,” Blythe said, bitterly.
Lord Vernon was wily. He would find his way out of any asylum. And when he came to Bluebelle Lodge, she would…Would what? Kill him? Could she possibly bring herself to take a life?
“Blythe.” Graeme’s gentle tone called her back to the present.
They had reached the end of the story and the end of the meal.
She stood. “Do stay and enjoy your port, gentlemen. Hermione, will you excuse me as well? Safe travels, Mr. Jarrow.”
She hurried out of the room and went to the nursery where she found a maid watching over the sleeping baby while Coralie and Nicholas curled up with books.
She managed a cheerful good night and kisses and then went to her bedchamber, her mind in a turmoil.
What was she to do? Memories flooded her of the night she’d miscarried. Lord Vernon hadn’t put the drugs in her tisane; he hadn’t cornered her and ripped the nightgown from her body; he hadn’t held the whip that struck her back; or…
She dropped her head onto her hands and tried to breathe. Her husband’s clumsy assault that night had not been love making. Lord Vernon had done no more than watch, but he’d been the puppet master and Archie the puppet.
And yet Graeme thought the punishment proposed for Lord Vernon was fair. Because it was politically advisable. Because he wanted to force her to accept his protection.
She stood and paced the room, grasping for calm. She would stay the course. She would see through the Season, socialize, find her place in society so that Coralie might have a chance at a season in a few years. Then she and the children would return to Bluebelle Lodge and begin again mingling with local society. Perhaps Diddenton could be pressured to sell Wickworth Hall. She must ask Graeme if that was possible. He said he would help her.
She plopped down on the bed and saw the valise lying there.
She would not cry over Lunetta Casale, no matter how sad her life had been. But her child… what special items would Lunetta have saved for her?
Giving in to curiosity, she opened the case. An embroidered baby’s christening cap, aging and yellowing, fell out. There was a handkerchief under that, also embroidered with golden daffodils, and this one newer, bearing the initial M. An unadorned handkerchief twisted around coins. She set all of that aside and reached for a large envelope that had been secured with a twist of string.
Heart racing and fingers shaking, she opened it and unfolded the papers inside.
The Last Will and Testament of Archibald Townsend Stafford Blatchfield, Baron Chilcombe, Viscount Stafford, Earl of Chilcombe. Flipping to the last page, she read the signatures and date.
She fell back on the bed, clutching the papers to her heart, her body beginning to tremble.
Chapter Eighteen
This late in the spring, the fair days gave way to chilly nights, but not so chilly as to require a fire in the grate in her bedchamber. There would be one in the kitchen, banked, but easy enough to stir.
Downstairs in the hall, a footman greeted her, and lamps still burned. Her pulse quickened.
“Have the dinner guests left?” she asked.
“A little while ago, my lady. Captain Lynford went out also. Lady Hermione has retired, but his lordship is in the library.”
